


Our Lady Suspiriorum

by Becky_Blue_Eyes



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Elia Martell Lives, F/M, Horror, Inspired by Suspiria 2018, Magic, Mythology - Freeform, Queen Elia Martell, Surreal, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:34:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27323566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Becky_Blue_Eyes/pseuds/Becky_Blue_Eyes
Summary: There is a dance to the great game of thrones, and a dance between mothers and daughters. Elia Martell, first Princess then Queen, is above all else a dancer. Above all else, she is a mother.A short surreal horror story inspired by the 2018 movie Suspiria. Happy Halloween!
Relationships: Aerys II Targaryen/Rhaella Targaryen, Elia Martell/Rhaegar Targaryen
Comments: 18
Kudos: 61





	Our Lady Suspiriorum

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: this story is more about the feeling of a story than a story with hard plot. If you are confused about what happens, try to imagine it as an abstraction of fate, and mothers, and death.

_this is a waltz thinking about our bodies_

_what they mean for our salvation_

* * *

For all of her faults, and as a Dornishwoman the realm sees her to have many, none can fault Elia Martell on her wedding day. Not her long waves of inky black hair to her waist, not her olive skin glowing in the sunlight, not the sweet glimmer in her large brown eyes. She is the Maiden incarnate in her gown of white and cloth-of-gold, and even poisonous ladies with their fangs dripping for their Crown Prince must concede that she is a princess born to her crown.

As a favor to the court and their delight, Elia dances for them all to the tune of lutes and high harps and Dornish drums. She spins delicate arabesques with her arms held lofty over her head like swan wings. Her slippered feet glide over the ballroom, and when she twirls she rises up to the very tip of her toes as if she is entirely weightless. Women sigh, men covet, and her new husband is thrilled to have the very milk of feminine grace to be his consort. When she curtsies do deep that her lips brush the ground and her wedding veil makes a pool of light around her feet, everyone applauds. Everyone adores her. Just as she intends.

She was born for this, as she was born a woman and a Dornishwoman and a delicate one at that. Her destiny is to be queen, as written in her soul long ago. And to achieve that destiny, she dances. There is a dance to everything, as her mother taught her when she was just a little girl. A dance to making people love her. A dance between being delicate and being frail. A dance to the great game of thrones where the ground is as stable as casting sugar piled high on a silly child’s plate. A dance for the seasons, and for songs, and for motherhood. Above all else, Elia is a dancer, and she is ready to become a mother.

Rhaegar nods when she whispers her desire into his ear, he seated deeply within her and she embraced all around him. “We shall give birth to saviors of the world,” he says. A Prince Who is Promised, he swears. “He will be blessed by our Mothers of Valyria and bring back the dawn with the three heads of the dragon.” Elia just smiles, and sighs deep and dreamy. What does he know of prophecy? Of magic? He speaks of the Mothers of Valyria, the three Ladies Tenebrarum, Lachrymarum, and Suspiriorum who brought dragonfire and magic to the world before casting their children down in the Doom for daring to try and overpower their mothers. Tears, darkness, sighs, death. Such is the nature of mothers, to punish their children for their transgressions; only little Daenys the Dreamer was given the chance to save her bit of family, as a favor to a favorite daughter.

What do those sacred Mothers think of the Targaryens now? When Rhaenys’s birthright was stolen by Baelon, with Rhaenyra’s stolen by Aegon? Rhaella, the very best of women and mothers, reduced to scars and shivering and screams? Elia wonders if there is a doom coming for her good family, for the house she has married into. If it does come, she will not question it. Who is she to question a mother’s logic when she is just a daughter with empty arms and an empty heart?

Despite their folly, the Targaryens still worship their Mothers even as they worship the Seven. Elia understands that—the Mother of the faith is quite a Mother indeed—but all of her silly husband’s grand designs and dreams…to this, she sighs and silences his mumbling with another kiss.

Perhaps she will teach him the truth, or perhaps she will leave him to his delusions of grandeur. It matters little for her. What matters is the life blooming into fruition in her womb, and how she nurtures it as all mothers ought.

When under a black moon their daughter is born with one eye violet and the other blue, with her black curls streaked with white, with her skin the color of sunlight and her very blood thrumming with power, she calls her Shiera. Rhaegar protests, as his three-headed dragon has predestined names. But then she silences him with a kiss, and his breath is lost to hers. Shiera, their Princess Shiera, named for a sorceress truly worthy of Elia’s line. Her firstborn daughter. Elia is a mother now. Everything is as it should be, and shall be.

* * *

_with only the clothes that we stand up in_

_just the ground on which we stand_

* * *

Rhaegar is upset with her. Elia sighs and looks over her sleeping children. Two beautiful daughters, Shiera and Aelinor. No Rhaenys nor Visenya for Rhaegar, and certainly no Aegon. Elia could be mother to a son if she so desired, if the fancy ever struck her—but what she needs, what Westeros needs, is daughters. One for the sun and one for the moon; one for the wind and one for the waves; one for magic of the body and one for magic of the mind.

Both for tears, and darkness, and sighs.

Those three shall be in heavy supply in the coming moons. There is rebellion sweeping across the continent, since Rhaegar ran off with the Stark girl and the two Lords Stark paid for their lives in wildfire and blood. Oh, he thought her so offended when he crowned Lyanna with blue roses at that inconsequential tourney. Elia just sighed then, and she sighs now, because she pities Lyanna. She needn’t die so early in life, and yet there they were, down in Dorne where the sun casts dark shadows and tears streak like sweat from burning eyes and all through the mountains and dunes whistle long terrible sighs. Lyanna has Rhaegar’s so-called promise in her womb. But not for long.

He will be so dreadfully angry with her, but Elia has plans for that too.

For now, she must kiss her little daughters on their pillowy cheeks, nuzzle her nose again their curls and inhale the sweet smell of tiny fragile life. Inhale, exhale, sigh. Rhaegar shall go to the Trident to defeat the rebels there, and he will fail if she does not intervene. But it is a simple thing, to build a room filled with mirrors. Westeros’s Crown Princess loves to dance, everyone knows this. Even Aerys does not begrudge her Myrish glass, not when Elia spins with her arms held high and her gown swirling close to the contours of her body. She knows he watches her. She keeps his gaze upon her so that he leaves Rhaella be.

Her poor good mother. No one, not even the lowest of demons, deserves Rhaella’s pain. Her guilt, her shame—the world is not worthy of it, Elia knows this down in her bones. So she, growing heavy with an ill-gotten child, hides in the shadow of Elia’s spins. Let Aerys lust over her. Like the tides washing in and out of Blackwater Bay, it comes and it goes and in the end means hardly anything at all when Elia controls that subtle moon.

When it is time, Rhaella must go to Dragonstone with Viserys. There is a blockade in the bay from rebel ships, so they must journey by land first before entering a little-known port. Rhaella clasps Elia’s hands and they tremble with fear, with regret, with rage. “I am sorry,” she murmurs. “I-I asked to bring you and your girls with me, but he insisted you stay, I am so sorry—”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Elia murmurs. She leans up and kisses Rhaella on her forehead as if she is a daughter of her own. “I shall pray for your safety.”

Rhaella will make it to Dragonstone, that is certain. What is not certain is the fate of all the rest. Elia wears a sheer white gown, made of precious sandsilk and iridescent lace. She is bathed in sunlight, like the Maiden and Mother and Crone all at once, and Aerys lusts for her. She smiles, and asks, “Is it true you still pray to the Mothers of Valyria? Do they watch over you?”

“They shall lead us to greatness,” he rasps. Greatness, and glory, and the destruction of all their enemies. Tears, darkness, sighs. What a wonderful thing. He grasps at her gown and she sighs. He shivers. “Dance for me.”

She does. In the room of mirrors, with Aerys prone on the ground at her feet and her reflection mirrored a thousand times over, she dances. She moves to the swell of music only she can hear, the music of starry twilight and bleeding motherhood and magic that Rhaegar could never possibly understand. She contorts. No gentle arabesques and pirouettes, no—Elia throws herself, she breaks herself, she remakes herself. She empties herself out and dances in the shade of a different mother, of a past mother, of all the mothers leading back to primordial darkness.

Sound refracts in the mirrors as delicate violence. Her shoulders crack like the terror of a thousand horses toppling upon themselves and shattering. Her wrists twist like the axles of a wheelhouse giving in on a sabotaged road. Her knees bend backwards and inwards, collapse with tearing flesh young and old. Elia pants against the ground and her jaw crackles and pulls into unnatural shapes. She flings herself against the mirrors, again and again and again, separating rib from rib, organ from organ, marrow from marrow. Aerys seizes upon the ground in rapture and the sunlight burns her from the inside out. Her tears pool on the floor like blood from severed arteries. And when she is finished, Elia sighs, and she sighs a death rattle.

Then she picks herself up from the ground. She is as perfect as ever, as sweet and beautiful as her wedding day. When the ravens come within the coming week of the massacre at the Trident, of how the rebels were literally torn and twisted to pieces beneath Rhaegar’s army, of how poor Rhaella was the survivor of a cowardly attack upon her person with poor Viserys lingering at death…Elia sighs. She sighs, and cradles her children, and watches the light consume a thousand carrion corpses.

* * *

_is the darkness ours to take?_

_bathed in lightness, bathed in heat_

* * *

Rhaegar is soon to return victorious. Does he know that Lyanna is dead and their bastard with her? Elia hopes that he doesn’t, as that will break his little malformed heart. She needs him whole for what she intends.

Shiera gazes up at her with her lovely blue-violet eyes, with all the love and trust a daughter has for a mother. Elia smiles and cradles her close. “What shall we sing of today, my sweet?”

“The song of sighs,” Shiera asks. Already she is so eager to know of her true worth, of what binds her and Elia together in a line stretching back before time. She pats her chubby hands on Elia’s, and smiles with her little milk teeth. “You sing so pretty, Mama. I wanna be same.”

“So you shall be,” Elia promises. It is an easy promise to make. Shiera will not be her successor in true form, but she will succeed Westeros as its first queen regnant. She and Aelinor and perhaps a third will bring the dawn in ways no prophecy could guess. That is a legacy worth any mother’s salt and blood, worth a thousand sighs of relief and regret. It is a shame her father will not see it, but it is of little matter; of what worth is a father who would abandon his daughters?

Elia sings in her true tongue, with her voice pulsing with purpose and her teeth red and sharp. Shiera sleeps at her breast and Elia kisses her cheek. Oh, the lords will chafe themselves into worn knots to see Shiera on the Iron Throne. But Viserys’s bones are broken in a hundred ways, and the Baratheons are no more, and the Blackfyres across the sea are a feast for Elia’s elder sisters. The path is clear, save two. And once Rhaegar returns, Elia shall give her daughter a birthright no brother nor father nor uncle will steal.

It begins with a smile Aerys’s way, a smile that curdles the milk of humanity and heats his rotten dragon blood. “Your Grace,” she sighs, she sighs right into his ear, “I believe my husband shall try to dethrone you on his return. He has destroyed your enemies, why would be content to stop there?”

The seeds that Varys has planted make lovely fruit. Aerys twists around her fingers like high harp strings curling in wildfire. Punish him, she sighs. Sacrifice him to the Mothers of Valyria so that they may bless the Targaryens once more. Are there not dragon eggs still hidden in musty corners of the castle? Are dragons not Aerys’s birthright? It is so easy.

And of course she shall be present to welcome Rhaegar to his doom. She opens her arms wide as he returns, pale and shaken from the Trident. What did he see as Robert’s chest caved in on its own accord? As Eddard Stark and Jon Arryn crumpled into bloody ruin? As a thousand horses toppled upon each other and slayed all of their riders? Did he see his death in the bloodied river waters? They will call that blighted battleground the Ruby Ford for all the glittering blood and entrails beneath a burning sun. Elia smiles, and he shudders.

What does he see in her eyes? They are brown as ever, and sweet and shining. He cannot meet her gaze and it thrills her.

“My love,” she sighs, “welcome home.”

Lyanna is dead, torn to pieces from within. Their promised prince is dead, a puddle of matter and bone. The Kignsguard who guarded her are dead, their jaws twisted all the way around their necks. The Dornish dunes will sweep up from beneath the red mountains and bury them whole in their joyous tower. None shall ever know what became of them, as Elia doesn’t see the point in turning their fate into a song for Shiera.

Aerys’s men surround them, and Elia steps back with dainty steps. She dances as Rhaegar is dragged into the black cells, she dances with Aelinor giggling in her arms and Shiera standing on her feet. Together they spin in the glittering mirrors until perhaps all their reflections are the same, endless and eternal.

* * *

_all is well, as long as we keep spinning_

_here and now, dancing behind a wall_

* * *

“ELIA!” Rhaegar screams from his pyre. “ELIA, PLEASE!”

“Be silent!” Aerys hisses at him from the throne. Elia is at Aerys’s side with his gnarled hand fisted in her gown. She sighs and her exhale disturbs the wisps of smoke trailing up from the wildfire below. Bring green and ghastly as a false spring. The pyromancers circle the pyre, muttering their equations and incantations, and all the while Rhaegar screams for Elia to save him. Why should she? There is no saving from this.

“Your Grace,” Rossart snivels with his bright eyes backlit by the flames. “It is time.”

Three eggs lie at Rhaegar’s feet. Three eggs for three heads of the dragon; three eggs for the Three Mothers. She doubts it’ll work, as magic works on its own time. But perhaps, if these eggs truly hatch, Elia shall claim one each for Shiera and Aelinor. And for the third—Rhaegar screams as the wildfire reaches his pyre. Elia rolls back her eyes and inhales deep the stench of her husband burning alive. It is sweet.

“Mothers of Valyria!” Aerys’s voice rasps with deadly euphoria. His nails catch in Elia’s hair as he throws his arms up and beseeches the gods. “Mothers of the Targaryens! I offer you this sacrifice! My traitor of a son! Take him with fire and bring to life dragons with his blood!”

The ground tremors and the men circled on the floor look at each other in askance. Elia can smell their apprehension, their disbelief in what they believe in. And all the while Aerys beseeches the Mothers to act on his behalf. “Death to any other Mother!” he screams. “Death to our enemies!”

So shall it be.

Elia closes her eyes. When she reopens them, they are dragonglass black all over, save a star shining in their centers. Wisdom Rossart is the first to notice, the first to scream and cover his ears in horror. Aerys turns towards her and gasps. Elia brushes past him as she ascends to sit upon the throne. The sword barbs caress her skin, welcome her—no other mother than she, and she is the mother to the realm.

Aerys scrambles away from her down the uneven steps. He trips and gouges open his leg on a barbed sword near the base of the throne. “You…what are you?”

Elia stares down at him. She unlaces the front of her simple bodice, until it and her outer gown crumples at her feet. Her kirtle is split down the middle, exposing the valley of skin between her breasts. She holds her hands to that bare skin, she feels what lies within. “Of the Three Mothers of Valyria that bring forward death and despair—who did you intend to invoke today?”

He trembles. “The Mother who brought dreams to Daenys. M-Mother Suspiriorum.”

She smiles. “I am She.”

The wildfire crackles and sighs out a long, terrible hiss that brings the pyromancers to scream and vomit all over the floor. Does he dare look at the flames? Aerys is transfixed beneath her gaze, too terrified to do more than deny the inevitable. Elia digs her nails into her chest, piercing that lovely expanse of olive skin. Then she pulls herself open to reveal what lies within. The darkness pulsates with bloody teeth and bloody motherhood, gushing its vicious purpose. Aerys shrieks when his eyes boil out of his head and drip down to scald his tongue. Her motherhood screams in return and Elia sighs with relief.

Mother Suspiriorum, Our Lady of Sighs. The room shakes and the throne groans and the wildfire shrieks and most of all the wind sighs its cold, gentle despair through their lungs. Yes, she is that very mother. And what better ruler for a nation than a mother for her children? She casts her gaze over all of the pathetic men crawling away from their doom. No other mother than she, and these men have forsaken her for a false mother of wildfire and false prophecy.

Tenebrarum, Lachrymarum, Suspiriorum. Darkness, Tears, Sighs. _Death._ They shall be grateful that Elia’s nature is that of sighs, as that is the most mercy they shall find tonight.

Death comes with their sighs. Their lungs super-inflate with the burning fumes of the wildfire until they are consumed from within. Then when they sigh they release all of their innards into charcoal, exploding into ash and bone. Aerys catches alight like a candle, like Brightflame all his own. Elia descends from the throne to stand before him, before shoving him back. He falls into the flames and is unmade there in this madness. Their screams and sighs echo in a choir of doom and she lifts her arms above her head.

She dances.

She dances until the flames release their last ember and the flesh release their last surrender and all that is left in ash. Death becomes her, becomes them all, in her vicious delicacy.

The eggs, just as she suspected, are still cold stone. Another time, another place, another destiny. Then she opens the windows all at once and the ash drifts away to somewhere she cares not to know. From within her bleeding mother-heart she pulls out two crowns made of rose gold and electrum. She sets the larger of the two upon her brow, and saves the smaller for Shiera. A birthright of blood and fire, of sighs and tears and darkness. Of a mother’s love for her daughter.

When she calls for Varys, not even the smell remains, nor a single drop of blood. “Send for my brothers, Lord Varys, and for the rebels. I am of a mind to conciliate myself with them, no matter their deed.”

Varys is a smart man, and he does not ask why she sits on the throne and neither Rhaegar nor Aerys. Instead he kisses her ring, and says, “I am ever at your service, Your Grace.”

The sun burns bright through the window. It is a beautiful day.

* * *

_hear the old songs and laughter within_

_all forgiven, always and never been true_

* * *

Shiera is crowned Queen of Westeros with all the high lords and nobility of her kingdom in attendance, and some from further Essos. Aelinor clings to Elia’s arms, and the little Stormborn grizzles in a cradle while Rhaella lies in her birthing death bed. Elia, as Queen Regent, is the one to hand Shiera her crown and scepter. She takes note of who are enthused for their little queen, those who covet her for her own, those who still grumble over a queen regnant with a princess for an heir. Elia shall take care of them soon enough, through Varys and through her own means. But for now, all that matters is her daughter’s sweet smile, her blue-violet eyes shining with happiness. Everything Elia does is for her daughters, beginning with her firstborn.

Elia looks out over the crowds and counts faces. The new Lord Stark is grim as death, having buried his father; brothers; sister; and sister’s bastard. But he is too honorable to go against Shiera for something she never did. He is young too, young enough to mold around her finger, poor motherless orphan he is. Little Lord Tully with his uncle as regent is here too and perhaps he will make a good husband for Shiera, or one of the Tyrell boys. There is time yet to decide. What a marvelous thing, to be master of one’s own time.

As for their Essosi guests…she smiles. Her sisters are here to see her triumph.

They walk together in the snow-frosted gardens after the sun has faded to starry twilight and their little queen is holding court with the ladies of her own age. Dear Oberyn and Doran are keeping watch over her, as are her Queensguard. It is lovely to be able to walk without Aerys’s eyes on her every step, without Rhaegar’s melancholy tainting the bitter winter air. “I could feel her power within,” her eldest sister says. “Westeros is in good hands.”

Melisandre, Mother Tenebrarum, is on her left. The Widow of the Waterfront, Mother Lachrymarum, is on her right. Melisandre is as beautiful as ever with her burning red hair and burning red eyes and the burning red darkness that clings to her skin. The Widow is beautiful in a different way with her wrinkled skin showing hundreds of years’ worth of tears and despair overcome by slaves in Essos. Elia squeezes their hands. “Sister, how goes your Faith?”

“They pray to their Lord of Light so that he may illuminate the darkness for them. The brighter their fires burn, the stronger my shadows become. All the night’s terrors are mine to control, and I am generous with their beliefs.” Every one of Melisandre’s words drips with exquisite terror, the kind of terror that converts millions. Soon all of Essos will be under her thrall. What more could they dream of?

Elia turns to her withered elder. “Sister, have you been thinking of a successor? My own body is frail at times, but it will be some decades before I must seek another form.”

“Forgive me for my presumption, but the Princess Daenerys has quite a fire within her. And to be half-orphaned so young in life, such a terrible sadness that must be.” The Widow wipes at the tears budding in her cataract hazy eyes. Melisandre flicks away the light of a torch near them so that they remain in the shadows. As always, Elia sighs. “Her destiny shall lead her east, I can feel it. Perhaps there she shall meet me.”

“Her mother has been broken down by the pains of this world. She may need another mother to guide her.” And so shall it be. A dragon princess to ignite the final chains of slavery in Essos and bring all the slave masters to wretched despair and the slaves to tears of joy—Elia cannot wait to see it. “It is a wonderful thing to be a mother. I am now mother to a nation, and I will never let them go astray.” Shiera shall be queen, and her daughter after her, and her daughter after her. A lineage of mothers and daughters; of tears and darkness and sighs; of death and delight. No man shall ever think to harm a single hair on her precious daughter’s head, Elia will make sure of that.

No, the rule of Targaryen men’s folly is over. Elia sighs as Melisandre smiles with bloodied teeth. “Death to any other Mother than we.”

Death, to any other indeed.

* * *

_when I arrive, will you come and find me?_

_or in a crowd, be one of them?_

* * *

Elia kneels by Rhaella’s bed. At her side are a bowl of warm water, a soft cotton cloth, and a burning candle. With utmost care, as if Rhaella is her own little daughter, Elia dips the cloth in the water and faces her face. Rhaella’s hands twitch and her mouth briefly turns downwards before she relaxes and leans into the touch. “All shall be well,” Elia murmurs. “Everything is alright now.”

“My son…” Rhaella’s voice is whisper ravaged. What son does she mourn for? Rhaegar, who deserves none of her guilt? Viserys, who deserves none of her shame? Elia squeezes her hand and Rhaella’s cloudy eyes fill with thick tears. “I…my son…”

“Rhaegar’s ashes were buried in the crypts of Dragonstone along with his ancestors. I oversaw it myself, it was done with all the honors he deserved.” The moon that night was a marvelous gray, hazy and undefined through the clouds of sulfur and heat. Elia threw Rhaegar handful by handful into the sea and the waves lapped him up like eager dogs at the hunt. “Viserys is still recovering from Baratheon’s attack but the maesters say he will improve.” He will not. Elia is sure of it.

“Thank you.” Rhaella’s legs spasm. Elia wipes her face, her neck, her hands and feet. The linens are fresh but Elia can still smell the lingering phantom of Daenerys’s birth clinging to the floor stones. The little babe will grow into a great beauty one day, with a great dowry and a great purpose. She shall want for nothing at Aelinor’s side, at Shiera’s feet, as the future Lady of Tears. Rhaella will be proud to see it if she lives that long. Rhaella strains to touch Elia’s cheek, and Elia rests her face on Rhaella’s breast. No, she may not live that long. Perhaps that is a mercy in itself. “Elia… forgive me…”

“You have nothing to forgive, good mother. The world has much to be sorry for, it needs guilt. It needs shame. But it does not need yours, nor my forgiveness.” Elia is quiet for a while, focusing on Rhaella’s labored breathing. The candle flickers, and the wind outside sighs a lament against the eaves.

“…mother,” Rhaella gasps for breath, “Mother, I am so tired.”

Elia smiles. She rests her palms on Rhaella’s cheeks. “What do you ask of me?”

“I ask…to rest…to rest forever…”

Elia kisses her forehead. And Rhaella’s breaths soothe, they calm, they sigh in a hard-won release until all is silent and peaceful. Elia adjusts the linens so that Rhaella is shrouded then looks out the window. Shiera is playing in the snow with Aelinor and Ser Jaime; they are dancing in the coming storm, Shiera brings the coming storm with all the clumsy skill of a toddler. There is nothing quite as lovely, except perhaps the peace on Rhaella’s face.

“Rest now, daughter mine.” Elia blows out the candle and her eyes glitter endless and eternal in the dark. “I shall take over from here.”

* * *

_mother wants us back beside her_

_no tomorrow’s, at peace_

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics of “Suspirium” are copyright by Thom Yorke.
> 
> Mother Tenebrarum: Our Lady of Darkness, High Priestess Melisandre of Asshai
> 
> Mother Lachrymarum: Our Lady of Tears, The Widow of the Waterfront
> 
> Mother Suspiriorum: Our Lady of Sighs, Queen Elia Martell
> 
> The Three Mothers of Valyria were the ones to gift the Valyrians with dragons and magic, and when they became displeased with their violence and treachery they destroyed them with the Doom. They spared Daenys, but in the end the Targaryens squandered their mercy and became as corrupt and wretched as their ancestors. Once again, the Mothers took action against that, and the world is given a mother's love.


End file.
